The Life and Times of a Bartender in District Nine
by Amelia Bright
Summary: "So, you might ask, how did a pale, awkward, near-sighted bartender end up in rough-and-tumble District 9? The world may never know." An inside look at this little-known district, as told by Nigel Preer. Reviews are appreciated.
1. District 9: An Intro

**AN: This is going to be my first, and hopefully only, author's note. I don't know why I'm writing this; I really don't. The idea just came to me one night while I was trying to go to sleep. It's sort of a case study on a district we don't know enough about, told through the perspective of a single character in a breaking-the-4th-wall-manner. So I guess it's also a case study on this chosen character and his close knit -though undeniably odd- group of friends. It's not the typical sort of story found in this archive, but I don't think it's too off-kilter either. However, you guys are the real judges of that. Reviews would be nice, especially con-crit. Also, I do not own The Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does. **

**Chapter 1- District 9: An Intro**

Ah, my lovely home of District 9. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. If you live anywhere else, you probably think I'm being overdramatic. But if you live here, you understand. Heck, you've probably embraced it.

Nine is in charge of hunting, providing meat to the Capitol and the other eleven districts. It's laughable, really, that the main occupation of our district would get a person in any other district locked up or even killed. Anyway, because of that, the district is filled with rugged, highly skilled hunters. And, because of _that_, we send some of the toughest, grittiest tributes into the Hunger Games, giving us an impressive victory count, paling in comparison only to Districts 1, 2, and 4.

The social hierarchy in District 9 is divided into two groups: Hunters and Others, with a Peacekeeper squad thrown in for good measure. Basically, the Hunters are the ones who hunt (obviously), the young children who are being taught to hunt, and the older men and women who used to hunt, but are now retired. The Others (including yours truly) are, well, everyone else. Shopkeepers and their employees. The mayor. Countless homeless people who roam the streets.

Then there are the criminals. An assorted cast featuring Hunters and Others alike, these guys, along with the general dirt and grime, are the ones who gave District 9 the title of "The Armpit of Panem". It's flattering, at least in my opinion. How many other districts get nicknames? Oh, wait, there's District 13, "The Wasteland". Then again, Thirteen was blown to bits, so "district" should be taken with a grain of salt.

You'd think that the Hunters would look down on us Others, but they don't. If anything, the Hunters _need_ us. Sure, they catch all the meat, but who cuts up that meat? The butcher. Without my buddy Zigmund down at the weapon store, how would they take down those animals to begin with? And after a long, hard day of hunting, when they want a refreshing drink and some time to let loose and relax, who do they come to? Why, me, of course.

Let me guess your next question, "That's great. Who are you then, hot-shot?" Well, how kind of you to ask.

I'm Nigel Preer, but I go by many names. There's Nigel, the standard. Then there's "Nige", said by people who are way too comfortable around me and "Nigel, you idiot!", which is reserved for my mother. And lastly, one that I take pride in, "the bartender", although that isn't completely accurate. I own the place too. My father handed it down to me when I turned 20, which was about a year ago. Dad decided he had had enough and retired. He says to pass it on to _my_ son, which is a problem because I'm not really one for kids. Or marriage. Or any type of sexual or romantic relationship. It might have something to do with the fact that I'm just so unattractive…

Sorry to be so blunt here, but it's true. I'm downright pale, with a lanky build, complemented (or not) by a slight frame (it was years before my parents stopped referring to me as "the runt"); unruly black hair that has never met a proper wash; a thin face with high cheekbones; and brown eyes shielded by inadequate, thin-rimmed, constantly-slipping-down-my-nose glasses.

So, you might ask, how did a pale, awkward, near-sighted bartender end up in rough-and-tumble District 9? The world may never know.

I remember a day seven years ago, back when I was fourteen. The 50th Hunger Games had recently ended, and Haymitch Abernathy from District 12 was on his Victory Tour. All of Panem was shocked that he had won. Only one other person from Twelve had won the Hunger Games before, and cynical, soft-spoken Anatole Parsons didn't seem a likely candidate for mentor of the year. So, how did this sixteen-year-old boy from District 12 win the Hunger Games, and a Quarter Quell no less? That was what everyone wanted to know.

Anyway, Haymitch had come to District 9, and after all the Victory Tour festivities were over, my father and I went back to the bar, despite knowing fully well that no one else would show up that night. And who else should come in but Mr. Abernathy himself? His hair was a mess, his face pale and drawn, a far cry from the charismatic, appreciative victor seen earlier that day. I was sitting on a barstool, my father cleaning a glass behind the bar. He glanced up but said nothing.

Haymitch sat on the stool next to me. "A drink, sir?" he asked. My father nodded, still silent. Haymitch turned to face me.

"Well," he said, "You look like a proper Seam kid. With gray eyes, you'd blend right it."

"Um, thank you," I replied softly, a bit unsure.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That wasn't a compliment, son."

I scowled at him, my annoyance feeding my bravado. "I'm only two years younger than you. You're in no place to call me 'son'."

He smiled. "You've got spirit, little man. It would be a shame if you were to get reaped."

I shrugged. "That's never going to happen to me."

He stared at me, his gray eyes piercing. "I thought the same thing."

Dad chose that moment to drop Haymitch's drink. "You ever had beer before?" he asked gruffly.

Haymitch shook his head. "Nope. First time."

My father, in the way that only Anthony Preer could, said, "It won't be your last."

Haymitch shrugged indifferently and downed a gulp. His face scrunched up at the taste.

I raised an eyebrow with a self-satisfied grin. "Dad, can I have some?" I asked.

"Isn't it a little late for you to be drinking, Nigel?"

"Haymitch is doing it."

"Fine, fine, but don't get mad at me when you can't sleep tonight." He passed me a bottle. Haymitch's eyes widened with surprise.

"Really, sir?" he asked my father, "You're giving a drink to a fourteen-year-old?"

Dad just smiled. "This is District 9, boy."

Apparently lost for words, the victor went back to his drink, and about an hour later, a blissfully drunk Haymitch Abernathy stumbled out of my dad's bar.

What I had told him that night was correct; I never did get reaped. You know, most people who meet victors say that they learned a lesson from them, but, to be honest, I think Haymitch might have learned something from us.

I'm putting my story out because it needs to be told, regardless of whether anyone wants to hear it or not. I'm not trying to prove anything, so feel free to judge me for yourself.

Oh gosh, I sound like such a blowhard.


	2. All My Asshole Friends

**Chapter 2- All My Asshole Friends**

I stand behind the bar, watching the people that mill around. One man, with stringy hair hanging in front of his face, stares blankly ahead from his seat on a barstool. A teenage couple, sitting at a small table in the corner, speaks to each other in hushed tones. Others, with companions or alone, sit at various tables, sipping on their drinks. One of the older men gives a loud hoot as an attractive woman enters the bar, hips sashaying back and forth. She glares at him sharply, and he withdraws back to his liquor. She struts up to me and leans over the bar, arms folded under her breasts.

"How's it going, Nige?" she asks. The men in the bar give me dirty looks, but her hazel-green eyes twinkle only for me.

"Just fine, Cordelia, but it has been a quiet morning."

"That's a shame," she replies silkily, "I came here hoping for excitement."

If you haven't guessed by now, this is my friend Cordelia. She's a Hunter, which isn't hard to tell from her toned body and well-done tan. Her dark brown hair rests over her shoulder in a long braid. To the casual onlooker, it may seem like she's flirting with me, but I can guarantee you that she's not. It's just how she acts. Like she doesn't know any other way _to_ act; being flirtatious is so embedded in her personality that it would be nigh-impossible to make her stop.

Today she is wearing dark skinny jeans and a loose-fitting forest green top. And, of course, her constantly present gold necklace with a circle-shaped charm that has words (or possibly _a_ word) etched into it too small for me to read. Every time I've peered closer to get a look, she snatched my glasses away and threatened to break them, so I soon gave up. Those things are expensive, and not easy to replace.

"Well, I'm sure you've had plenty of excitement. I mean, haven't you already gone hunting? Sounds pretty exciting to me."

She rolls her eyes, more out of exhaustion than frustration. "It's less exciting when you've been doing it for the past twelve years."

Officially, all Hunters start out at age eleven, although their training usually begins long before that. Cordelia is twenty-three, two years older than me. In case you were curious.

"Anyway," she continues, "I told Zigmund to come and meet us here. Is that all right?"

"I don't care if Zigmund comes. Zigmund can do whatever he darn well pleases. What I'm upset about is that it's eleven-thirty, and Lyle should be here by now. I know, he's probably hanging out with his eighteen year old friends. But young and carefree or not, he's still my employee, and he should be here for his shift."

"Yeah," Cordelia agrees, "He needs to step up, be more responsible."

What isn't said is that we're actually worried for Lyle, that he might be having a nervous breakdown as we speak. The reaping is in a few weeks, and this being his last eligible year, Lyle has been on edge. We've tried to encourage him to calm down, _"Don't worry, Lyle, look at us. We were all teenagers once, and we were never picked," _but it doesn't seem to sink in.

Speak of the devil… the door opens, and Lyle walks in. Before I get the chance to admonish him, he says, "Sorry I'm late," effectively eliminating the scolding I was about to give him.

"No big deal," I shrug, "Don't make a habit of it, though."

He smiles. "Of course not."

I would've been content with keeping quiet and letting him get to work, but nothing gets past ever-observant Cordelia Leighton. She watches Lyle with a skillfully arched eyebrow.

"What happened to you?" she asks him.

Lyle looks up, head tilted to the side. "What do you mean?"

"You know," she says, tracing her finger along his jaw, "The big honkin' bruise on your chin." With that phrase, the image of seductive elegance dissolves. She pulls away.

Instinctively, Lyle's hand goes to his chin. "Oh, that. Nothing really. Damien got a little rough with me this morning, that's all."

Damien; Lyle's older brother by about ten years. Unless you enjoy awkward silence, don't ever ask their parents about the age gap. Damien and Lyle don't get along all that well, mostly because Damien likes to beat on him. It really gets under my skin, but Lyle insists that he can fight his own battles. Ever the cynic, I am not convinced.

"Got a little rough?" Cordelia asks incredulously, "It looks like he punched you in the face!"

"Yeah, well…" he trails off, obviously uncomfortable talking about it.

I cut in, to prevent any further damage by Cordelia. "Leave him alone and let him work. He needs to get his mind on more pleasant things. No need to remind him."

Lyle gives me a thankful smile. As he walks to the drink cooler, I notice a slight limp, a falter in his right leg. I lean over and whisper to Cordelia, "Kick to the shin by the looks of it. What do you think?"

She glances over at him and nods. "Probably," she whispers back, "Harsh one too, I'd imagine."

"Poor Lyle. He shouldn't have to deal with this. His own brother, no less. Makes me grateful to be an only child. How 'bout you?"

She bites her lip, a touch of sadness in her expression. "I suppose so." She looks at me directly, her face completely serious. "Not all siblings are like that, Nigel. You do know that, right?"

"Of course I know that. It just makes Lyle's situation so much worse. No one deserves to be their brother's punching bag."

It is a shame, really. In District 9, no one has very much money to get a new home when they get older, so most people live in their families' homes for most, if not all, of their lives. Cordelia's father is dead, but she still lives with her mother. Zigmund's folks died a while back, so he lives with his younger sister. In Lyle's case, he's stuck with both of his parents and his no-good brother. I guess that makes me one of the lucky ones. Before it was my grandfather's business, the bar was part of a housing unit, and there is a nice loft of sorts in the back with enough space for me and my minimal personal belongings. I enjoy the solitude, but it also means monthly visits to my parents' house. Not fun, let me tell you.

Just then, the smell of cheap cologne chokes my nostrils. Zigmund's arm drapes itself lazily over my shoulders. "Remember when we were first here, Nigel?" I look at him. His hair is greased up, most likely in preparation for a date. His breath reeks of mouthwash.

"Yeah, I remember. We were thirteen, and you got so drunk you could hardly stand."

He grins. "Good times, huh?"

I guess you could say that. It was a simpler time, that's for sure, when nothing mattered as long as you had a good time and didn't get reaped. A time when adults were stupid and girls were unreachable. Not a time of innocence, but a time of ignorance. There's no such thing as innocence in District 9.

"Yep, the best."

"You don't sound very convincing."

"Deal with it."

Cordelia snorts in mild amusement. Zig and I can go like this for hours at a time, taking the piss, reminiscing, and arguing all at once.

She understands it though. Zigmund was my first ever friend. We met when we were ten, and no one has managed to separate us since. In a way, I think she might be a little jealous. She's had plenty of friends in her days -she and Lyle are probably the only ones of us who have a social life outside of our group, as a matter of fact- but none of them have lasted for a lifetime. Life works in weird ways. Case in point, Zigmund is the one who introduced us. He met her in the weapons store. She was buying; he was selling, as per usual. And somehow they just clicked. A couple days later, he introduced her to me, and boom: instant bonds of friendship. This was two years ago, and none of us regret it.

With meeting Lyle, it was a different story. None of us knew him beforehand, we didn't usually associate with teenagers, anyway. He came into the bar one day last year, wanting to get a job. He seemed to have personality and a good work ethic, so I let him have it. It's hard not to befriend someone you're working with (if you don't, they won't listen to you), so I did just that. It wasn't long before he started butting into our conversations, and that's where it all began.

As Zig and Cordelia launch into a discussion on the finer points of bow-and-arrow maintenance, I can't help but smile. The average person watching might tell me to ditch these people before they cost me my sanity, but I can't think of one good reason to leave them. After all, they act like this because it's the only way to survive in this world.


	3. Bad Luck Bar

**Chapter 3- Bad Luck Bar**

Cordelia waves to us as she exits backwards through the doorway, on the way to her afternoon shift. Zigmund quickly turns to face me.

"I need your help."

"With what?" I ask, not wanting to imagine what he has in store.

"Well, I have a date with this girl tonight, and I told her we'd have it here."

I glare at him. "And why in the name of Jude would you tell her that?"

Oh, wait, that might cause some confusion. It's a common phrase here in District Nine. I'll explain it sometime later.

"Well, I just thought…"

"I mean, really, here? At the Bad Luck Bar?"

We call it that because when we were younger, if we ever had a date at the bar, it would ultimately end in disaster. No exceptions.

"I'm willing to give it another try," Zigmund says stubbornly, "Anyway, can you help me out? Just make sure she has the best experience you can offer. Please?"

It won't be the first time I've helped Zigmund with an impossible task.

"Fine. What's this girl's name anyway?"

His face takes on a dreamy expression. "Miranda."

I roll my eyes. "Wow. If that's not a hooker name, I don't know what is."

His face reddens. "She is not a hooker."

I raise an eyebrow and grin. "For your sake I hope so. But seriously, why do you want it here?"

The look in Zigmund's eyes is one of guilt. "She begged me to. She thought since I knew the owner that we could get discounts."

I do my best to remain calm. "Zig, she's using you. She thinks that I'll let her get off easy because she's dating my best friend. She'll dump you; you'll be too ashamed to tell me, and she'll be getting discounts for the rest of her life because I won't know any better! "

"Listen, man. I tried to say no, but she looked at me with those big blue eyes… She's got _blue eyes_, Nige!"

"Yeah, and you've got green eyes, and I've got brown! What's your point? She's still probably a crook."

"You don't even know Miranda. She's not like that. She couldn't be. She's too perfect!" His voice has taken a desperate edge. Upsetting him anymore could be catastrophic. For me.

"Alright, alright, okay. Maybe I'm wrong about Miranda. But still, just… don't be stupid, bud. There are plenty of deer in the woods."

He snorts a laugh. All is forgiven. "Aw. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you care about me."

Lyle interrupts by viciously clearing his throat. "Guys, if you're quite finished? Nigel, I can't handle every single customer by myself, you know."

"Lyle, this is a bar. It's noon. How many customers could we possibly have right now?"

"Look up and you'll find out," he says smugly.

I give a groaning, dramatic sigh and stand up to scan the area. Dang it, he's right. The place is full. Lots of people drowning their sorrows today. I guess I shouldn't be surprised; the Reaping is beginning to rear its ugly head.

"Okay, don't get your man-panties in a bunch. I'm on it."

"I'll try my best."

"That's my boy."

Zigmund leans back in his seat, his mouth twisted in a smirk. "That's right, beer monkeys. Get back to work."

I ignore him, and Lyle and I go back to doing our jobs. Like _men_, which is more than I can say for Zigmund.

On the way, I lean over to Lyle and hiss, "Can you believe it, Lyle? Zigmund's got a lady friend!"

They could hear his laugh from across the street.

* * *

><p>I bend down to get another glass with my eyes peering over the counter when I see Zigmund and Miranda, arms linked, walking in through the swinging glass doors. I look more closely at Miranda, and I can certainly see Zigmund's attraction to her. She has blond hair, uncommon in District 9. Brown hair is the most common, like Zigmund and Lyle and Cordelia, while a few black-haired folks such as my father and I are scattered throughout. She walks with the fluid grace of a Hunter, yet her slender hands show no signs of weapon usage. I think of Cordelia's hands, roughly callused from years of hunting, and beautiful in their own right. Zigmund's new lady friend suddenly becomes a whole lot more interesting.<p>

"Welcome aboard!" I declare, "How you doin', Zigmund? Nice to meet you, Miranda. I've heard so much about you. In fact, maybe a little too much."

She chuckles. "Good to know. You must be Nigel."

I do a slight bow. "The one and only." She laughs again. "I assume Zigmund's told you _so much_ about me as well?"

"Not really."

"Oh. That's cool, I guess. Anyway, you guys have a seat. Miranda, what do you do for a living? You a Hunter?"

"Not really. I'm sort of a Hunters' assistant. I hold on to the weapons and stuff for Hunters. There are about twenty of us, each assigned to a set number of Hunters. It's not as boring as it sounds, and it pays well enough, so I can't really complain."

"That's cool. Mine and Zigmund's friend, Cordelia, is a Hunter. Do you know her?"

"Wait, Cordelia Leighton?"

I nod.

"Well, I know of her. Yeah, my brother –he's a Hunter too– says she's one of the best, but maybe it's just because he's kinda crushing on her." She smiles guiltily, her dimples rising up to her blue eyes.

Zigmund and I shake our heads defiantly. Cordelia's skill is one of the few things we agree on. "Oh no," Zig says, "She's definitely one of the best."

She smiles, possibly feeling awkward about Zigmund giving such high praises to another girl in her presence.

"I'll get the drinks." I hurriedly get out of their way. Then I skid back when I realize I didn't ask them what they wanted.

About an hour and a half later, Miranda stands up to leave. Zigmund stands up too (he's quite the gentleman when he wants to be). She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek before walking out with a small wave. I rush over to Zigmund once her back is to the door.

"So, how'd it go?" I press, eager for details.

"Amazingly."

"Really, like, she wants another date with you and everything?"

"Yep," he grins wickedly, "Guess we can't call it the Bad Luck Bar anymore… hey, maybe you should try having a date here sometime."

I stomp on his foot.

**AN: Filler chapter, but I don't care! I've been thinking, and a lot of the chapter titles in this story are going to come from songs I listen too, while others from other places, and others from my own twisted mind that I just feel fit the chapter. So, my point is, from now on I'm going to include the origin of the chapter title in my author's notes below. Obscure references ahoy! Title for chapter 1: pretty self-explanatory. Chapter 2's title comes from a Hotel Lights song of the same name, and this chapter's title comes from Z & N's nickname for our charming little setting. **

**AN, parte dos: For plot reasons, I meant for Cordelia to live alone with her mother, but in the last chapter, I said she lived with her mom and dad. I'm going to change it in the chapter itself, but I figured I'd tell you here anyway so you won't have to look back. **


	4. Save the Shame for Me

**Chapter 4- Save the Shame for Me **

"I swear, if tomorrow doesn't kill me, I don't know what will."

It's the night before the Reaping, and as such, it's the night of our annual poker game. The owner of the previous cryptic statement is Lyle, who has had the honor of joining us for the past two years. It is a strictly guys-only event, which means Cordelia and Zigmund's kid sister are both unwelcome guests. Yet somehow, young Aurora always finds a way to sneak in. No one has figured out how she does it, and Cordelia is beyond caring, preferring to spend this evening in bed. Sixteen-year-old Aurora has the sweetest little crush on Lyle, which is both adorable and a bit disturbing.

"Sweet mother," Zigmund groans, "How long are you gonna keep rambling about that, Lyle?"

"Oh, hush," Aurora chides, "He's just scared, is all. Can't say I blame 'im. If I were any more nervous I'd wet myself."

Lyle grins sheepishly, quietly sipping at his wine glass. Special drinks for special occasions, I'm sure you understand. He turns to Zigmund with his well-thought-out reply.

"I'll quit rambling when you quit being a moron."

We all laugh. "Well now you've gone and done it!" I proclaim, nearly choking on my drink, "He'll be rambling until the day you die."

His face scrunches in frustration. "Yeah, whatever, man. Your turn."

I'll tell you a secret: I'm terrible at poker. It's pretty much the national pastime of District 9, and I suck at it. I think it's because I make way too many facial expressions, so the others can pretty much read me like a book. Another factor could be that my mother forbade it in our house, so I didn't learn it at that fundamental young age. Excuses aside, I am the world's biggest poker schmuck. And because of that, we'll skip past the embarrassment of my miserable failure.

"Remember the girl from last year?" Zigmund asks, "Went up there shaking like a leaf? Real twig of a girl, that one. She never stood a chance. I remember that after the Games ended - her family lived right near us, you know? - they didn't come out of the house for days."

"Our boy did pretty good though. Made it all the way to the Top Eight. Shame, that Two boy knocked his head clear off his neck. Promise me you'd do better than that, Lyle." I'm only a little bit drunk, honest.

Lyle laughs raucously. Don't worry; I'm sure he's even less drunk than I. "Please. I'd die within the first two seconds. You better hope I don't get reaped, or you'll be short an employee."

Aurora looks up in fear. Her green eyes, close to the color of Zigmund's to the point of being almost creepy, are filled with tears.

"Guys," she sniffs, "Stop it. You're scaring me." She shivers. "Wh-what if I get reaped?"

"If you get reaped, I'll force someone to volunteer," Zigmund replies, serious as a heart attack, "I'll _drag_ someone up the stairs if I have to. I swear on Mother's grave."

Aurora leans into her brother's side, still shivering and crying. She nuzzles her face into Zigmund's chest before whispering carefully, "Can we go home now, Ziggy? Please?"

She's younger than sixteen, in so many ways. It must have been hard on her, watching her mother die from that terrible illness when she was only ten. Zigmund, at fifteen, had coped. The siblings narrowly missed being sent to the Children's Home when their father died three years later, just days after Zigmund turned eighteen. I've always suspected that Aurora's emotional growth had been damaged because of it, and the scene before me only confirms my fears. Zigmund grasps her gently by the shoulders, head low and speaking to her in a quiet voice that only she can hear. Say what you like about my best friend, but if there's anyone you would want for a big brother, it's him.

"Nige," he says, pulling me out of my reverie, "Can she go to your room for a while? Get some rest, you know?"

"Of course."

"See, Rory, I told you. Nigel's a big sweetheart. He didn't mean to scare you, none of us did. Go take a nap. I'll come get you when it's time to go. Now, what do you say to Nigel?"

"Thanks. I don't care what Zig says, I think you're pretty cool."

She slowly detaches herself from her older brother (who I'm probably going to kill later) and goes to the back of the store, where my room is located.

"That Aurora's a very lucky girl, Zig, to have a brother like you," Lyle begins, "You know what Damien said to me? He said that he hopes I don't get reaped, because then he has to watch someone else kill me. Then he spat in my face and threw me against the wall."

He's laughing, but I can hear the pain in his voice. Lyle is terrified of Damien, almost as much as he is of the Games. At least in the Hunger Games you know roughly when you're going to die. With Damien, as Lyle has admitted to me before, it's a guessing game. No way of knowing when that monster decides he's had it with Lyle and gets rid of him once and for all. Even with his emotions dulled by the alcohol, one can easily sense his fear.

"Lyle," Zigmund says gravely, "If you need help, you just need to ask. We can stop him. We'll even go to the Peacekeepers about it if you want."

I nod. "Of course, man. We're like family. We look out for each other. Maybe we can convince Cordelia to shoot him in the neck or something."

Lyle, to my great surprise, is angry. "What do you know about _family_, Nigel? Cause you know what? Damien may be a horrible person, but he's still my brother! My parents… do you have any idea how devastated they'd be if something happened to Damien? He's their favorite; I'm just the accidental child they never wanted in the first place! Sure, they care about me, but they won't hear a bad word about Damien. They'd be crushed if he died or got whipped or anything like that. I don't want to be the one responsible for them feeling that way. Nigel, you don't understand. _Can't _understand. You're an only child! And you hardly keep in touch with your parents anyway. You don't know _anything_ about family!"

He looks like he's about to lunge at me, and I shrink back.

"HEY!" Zigmund's voice thunders, "That's enough, Lyle! Nigel is just trying to help. He didn't mean to insult you. Now, I know you've had quite a bit of alcohol, and I know this is a touchy subject for you, but you need to control your temper. Nigel, I believe it's your turn."

I pick up the cards, but my hand is shaking. "Um, Nigel, your hand is shaking," someone says. I'm not sure who.

"Shut up, I'm getting old," I snap. It's not that though, and I'm sure that they both can tell.

"You know what," Zigmund says, standing up. "I think we should call it a night. I'll go get Aurora; Lyle, you go ahead and leave. And Nigel, get some well earned rest."

He goes back to get Aurora, and Lyle and I are left standing awkwardly in the bar. Lyle is the first to speak.

"Listen, I'm really sorry. I'm just really stressed out, and I'm not thinking straight. I'm just scared, man. Scared that this might be my last night in District 9," he scoffs, "Jude's name, I sound like a pussy."

"Quite all right. I'm sorry too, Lyle. You're probably right; I do need to learn a lot about family. Biological family, anyway. G'night Lyle."

"Yeah," he sighs, "Night."

"Take care, Lyle," I mutter once he's out the door.

Zigmund comes back, a half-asleep Aurora stumbling next to him. He holds her lovingly with his arm around her shoulders.

"See ya, Nige," he whispers so as not to disturb her.

He walks out the door, and for the first time, I feel utterly alone.

**AN: Chapter title comes from the song "Me In Honey" by R.E.M. **


	5. Strange Holiday

**Chapter 5- Strange Holiday**

I wake up… but not to gently streaming sunlight like they probably do in District One, or to a rooster crowing as is claimed to happen in District Ten. In the early morning, District Nine's sky is a bleak, dusty gray, not so different from the walls and ceiling of my room. No one with a lick of sense is ever awake this early.

That's probably all the explanation you need as to why I am.

Shoving myself into a sitting position, I groan as I hear something pop in my back. I blow a stream of thick air out of my nose and stretch it out. I rub my hands against my sore neck and roll it back and forth until I hear a discomforting crack. This awful bed is doing a number on my bones and joints, but I can't afford, or bother, to get a new one. The mattress is thin enough that I can feel the wooden frame under it, and the ratty pillow I've had for as long as I can remember is in tatters. Without much (read: any) muscle or fat to act as padding between my spine and the bed, sleeping quite often has the potential to be my own living hell. Yet today is different; I'm groggier than usual, my thoughts less than coherent.

After a great deal of arguing with myself, I decide it's best to start my day by getting dressed and preparing to open up the bar. I've made it halfway across the room, dragging my pale, bare feet across the creaky wooden floor, when I realize that I can't. Reaping day. Every business is closed. I moan, smack myself in the head for my utter stupidity, and begin stumbling back to my bed. I drop back onto it, probably a little bit too quickly, and I am met with all the blood in my body rushing to my head, making me want to collapse onto the floor in a fetal position. The pain in my head grows, and I wonder how I could have possibly not noticed it before. It settles into a pounding, throbbing rhythm, thudding against my ears and causing my forehead to break into sweat. This could only mean one thing: hangover.

My thoughts flicker back to last night, just after they left. I circled around, and stared at the deserted scene. Poker cards spread all over the table, wine glasses, Aurora's empty cup of water lying on its side. Something snapped in my brain. I don't know what triggered it, but I angrily swung my foot full force at the side of the bar. It clearly hurt my foot more than the bar, but I didn't have the strength to care. I grabbed a bottle of beer and drank the whole thing, sitting on my bed, alone. I threw it out the half-open window and watched it shatter, shards of glass gleaming in the starlight as they flew. I fell flat on my back into the bed, and drifted to sleep in that same position.

So, yeah, definitely hangover. The simple explanation doesn't make me feel any better, though. There's a certain tension in the air, one that comes each passing year on Reaping day. Not even the Capitol representative's cheerful babble can lighten it. It hangs menacingly over everybody's heads; more so, however, for those who have loved ones and friends in danger of being picked. Sending two children –and they really are just children– to their violent, bloody deaths each year is terrible, and sure to be a somber occasion to anyone with the slightest semblance of a conscience.

The weirdest part of it is that we are expected to treat it as a celebration, a holiday, something to be anticipated and enjoyed. The artificial enthusiasm and festive decorations cheapen the deaths of these tributes, and that may just be the worst part of all. You might think the same way, if you're willing to agree with the hangover-induced mental ramblings of a troubled young man.

My mind drifts off to other, more uncomfortable things. More uncomfortable, perhaps, because they hit much closer to home. I can't imagine how I could possibly comfort Zigmund if he finds today that his sweet, fragile little sister is going to the Hunger Games. What to say to a man who has lost every other member of his family already? I honestly don't want to be there with the chance of hearing the announcer call the name, "Lyle Fortsmith!" over the commotion of the rowdy and uncouth District Nine crowd. I can feel my shirt, soaked with sweat, plastered to my back.

I hear a knock on the door. To clarify, the room has two doors, one that leads to the bar and another that leads straight from my room to the outside world.

"Come in!"

The door opens and someone walks in. My sight is hazy, unable to see them very well from a distance, so I grab my glasses and put them on. Immediately the image snaps into clarity and I recognize Cordelia standing in the doorway. She walks over, and then stands still and looks down at me with a critical eye. I make no move to get out of a sitting position. Instead, I look up at her over the rims of my glasses, waiting for her to speak.

"Well, you look a sight," she says at last.

Sweat drips into my eyelashes and I blink away what she might mistake for tears.

"Thanks, Cor. You're really boosting my confidence there," I respond dryly.

"Seriously, Nigel, what happened to you?"

"You're so smart, you figure it out," I grumble.

She rolls her eyes. "Great. I know what this is; you've got a hangover. Just what I wanted to deal with on Reaping day."

"Maybe you won't have to deal with me. Maybe I'll just stay home." The thought had not crossed my mind, but as soon as it does, it sticks there.

"Stay home? On Reaping day? You know just as well as I do that you can't do that unless you're near dying." She glares at me. "You weren't actually considering it, were you?"

"Well, if you must know the truth," I sigh, admitting this as much to myself as I am to her, "I still am."

Her eyes narrow. "You're a fool."

"I just… the stakes are high this year, Cordelia. Aurora could get picked… _Lyle _could get picked. And… and I care about them, you know? Most likely they won't be… but what if they _are_?"

Her expression softens and she kneels down to my level.

"And you think you can change the outcome by simply staying home. It doesn't work that way, you _know _that, Nigel. But it saves you from having to cope, and that's good enough for you. You can't change the inevitable. They'll get reaped, or they won't, and it won't make any difference whether you're sitting here at home or standing in the square. Besides, the stakes of staying home are even higher," her eyes take on a steely determination, "No one knows the punishment for skipping the Reaping. Maybe you'll get whipped. Maybe they'll shoot you. Maybe it's just a stern talking-to. Whatever it is, chances are it's not worth it."

I groan. She's trying to teach me a life lesson; I won't have any of it.

"What is this, make-Nigel-reflect-on-his-decisions-and-inner-self week? I'm staying home, Cordelia. That's it. Nothing's going to happen to me. Do you really think they go to all the trouble to count who shows up to the Reaping?" I laugh out loud at the absurdity of the thought.

Cordelia stands silent. She doesn't lose her temper or snap back. Such behaviors are below her. She simply smiles bitterly.

"Well, I can't make you come. And I'm certainly not going to exert all the energy to carry you there. It's your choice, Nige."

She exits. On her way out, she murmurs, "_Men_. I'm surrounded by idiots. With friends like these, who needs enemies?"

I smile at that, because when she talks about me like that is when I know she really cares.

The district becomes livelier as people head out to go to the Reaping. I take extra care to keep my head below the window and make sure no one sees me. This, by the way, is very difficult when you're six-foot-four and tower over all your friends. I briefly consider turning on the television to watch the Reapings of the earlier districts, but I don't want to run the risk of people hearing it. Besides, there is always a full recap of the Reapings at the end of the day. Surely I can keep myself entertained until then.

* * *

><p>Okay, so guess what. I was dead wrong. Have you ever been so bored, it made you want to scream, or even pull your hair out? Yeah, that's how I feel right about now. I've been lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling. I yawn, roll over, and let sleep overtake me again.<p>

* * *

><p>Finally. I wake up, <em>again<em>, and notice that the time is just right to turn on my television. The Reapings for all the districts are over, and I briefly wonder who got picked here in District Nine. Could it have been someone I know? I shake my head furiously to relieve myself of the thought.

The TV flashes to life. Two Capitol news anchors are shown sitting at a desk, a large picture of the seal of Panem on the wall behind them.

"Well," the man says, "It's that time of year again, time for the annual Hunger Games. The Games have a long, rich history, and are now entering their fifty-seventh year."

The woman next to him smiles, flipping her long bangs out of her face. "And what a glorious history it has been! Last year, Maris Elliope from District Four was the winner. I wonder, what will our tributes for this year be like? I'm sure everyone in Panem is wondering the same thing."

The man faces the camera and beams. "Wonder no longer! Here are your Reapings!"

I roll my eyes. It's just like those Capitol people to be so clueless. None of them came to the districts and _asked _what we really think about the Hunger Games. But hey, as long as they're happy, that's all that matters, right?

Sarcasm.

The screen switches to a picture of District One where a _very _excited Capitol escort is about to draw the first name. No one wants to hear the mayor's speech twelve times over. Both tributes end up being volunteers. The boy has his icy blue glare narrowed at the crowd, as if thinking of dozens of ways to kill each and every one of them. The girl, with a curtain of long black hair on both sides of her face, gazes right over their heads. Her face betrays no emotion.

District Two always puts on a show. This year is no exception. The boy grins like a madman when his name is called. Others shake their heads slowly, and nobody makes a move to volunteer. As if they're glad to be finally relieved of this psychopath. The girl, a volunteer, is a giant, hulking figure. Face only a mother could love. Unless you're my mother, that is. She has a hard time loving anyone.

My mind glazes over as districts go by. Three, Four, Five, Six. I manage to pay feeble attention to the District Seven tributes. The girl is rather plump, and when I watch the mayor's horrified face, it becomes clear to me that she must be his daughter. The boy is her polar opposite, so pathetically skinny it amazes me that a strong gust of wind doesn't blow him away. He stumbles to the stage; a large bruise standing out on his cheek tells that life has not served him well.

District Eight is overwhelmingly unexciting.

District Nine comes up, and I hold my breath. Despite the escort's energetic encouragement, no one gives her applause. I can't help but feel proud of my district. The escort declares ladies first and reaches her hand in to draw the girl. _Not Aurora. Not Aurora. Oh, please, not Aurora. _

"Bethany Asher!" The girl who goes up is petite and pale-skinned, certainly not a Hunter. She swallows nervously. I can imagine Zigmund's sigh of relief.

But the fear I felt for him and Aurora is nothing compared to the fear I feel now. _Not Lyle. Not Lyle. Not Lyle. _And… it's not Lyle. It is a boy named Keith Olderman, who walks slowly from the sixteen-year-old area to the stage. His brown eyes flicker back and forth. Instincts. He's a Hunter. Nine just may have a winner this year.

The boy from Ten is work-tanned but bowlegged. The girl from Eleven is fourteen and has thick, bushy hair. The District Twelve tributes are clearly marked for death.

The Reapings are over. I can finally breath again.

**AN: Chapter title comes from "My Own Cloud" by Hotel Lights.**

**I've never had a hangover (due to the fact that I'm 15), so forgive me if I portrayed it wrong. However, I know full well what it's like to be nearsighted (and to need glasses to see anything more than two feet away from me), so don't you dare try to correct me on that. XD**

**I'm trying to think of a last name for Zigmund and Aurora, but my mind's drawing a blank. Any suggestions would be fantastic. **


	6. Reality, Whether You Like It Or Not

**AN: Thank you to carmencielle and Trouilefou for the last name suggestions. Virtual cookies to you. I'm goin' with Heller, suggested by carmencielle. You guys are the bomb, my grand total of two reviewers! Hopefully some other people will catch onto the story soon. And leave a beautiful review, of course (wink, wink). **

**Chapter title comes from a line in the book _My Ántonia _by Willa Cather. **

**Chapter 6- Reality, Whether You Like It or Not **

On the screen, the chariot display for the Hunger Games is in its final stages. Every once in a while, while making his rounds to the customers, Lyle glances at the television. I hand a mug of beer to a man sitting at the bar, but the arrival of his drink hardly catches his attention. His eyes are plastered on the screen. I clear my throat, and he gives me a withering look, picking up his mug and pulling it to his mouth. He turns his head back to the chariots. Zigmund, leaning up against the bar with his elbows propped on the flat surface, grins at me.

"Nigel, you wouldn't happen to know the name of the boy from Three, would you?"

"I dunno," I reply honestly, "Probably 'Haywire' or something like that."

Zigmund laughs.

"It's Bartlett," Lyle says quietly, "The girl is Joule."

Cordelia seems surprised. "You knew that?"

The eighteen-year-old shrugs. "Yeah."

Zigmund is impressed. "Dude, that's neat. Who else do you know?"

"Well, our kids are Bethany and Keith. The boy from Seven is Arbor. Girl from Six is Jaclyn. Kids from Twelve are Ross and Mabel. The boy from Two is Valdemar. Oh, and the tributes from District One are Tracy and Lamar. That's all I can remember."

"Lyle, you're wicked smart," I remark.

"Thanks. Mom tells me I have a mind like a steel trap. So glad I'm not in the arena with them. It's bad enough to put a name to a face of a kid condemned to death without the possibility that you might have to kill them. Or that they might kill you."

Our conversation is interrupted at the sound of Cordelia's gasp. "Ugh, that's disgusting! Those stylists are sick!"

Her face is scrunched up in hatred as she stares at the TV screen in disbelief. District Twelve's chariot is currently in view of the cameras. The tributes… oh, gosh. The tributes are completely naked, except for a fine layer of coal dust over their skin. The sight makes Lyle and Zigmund grimace, and I breathe deeply to prevent myself from gagging. It's made worse by the fact that the girl is only twelve years old.

Similar cries of disbelief and anger fill the room. A man throws a bottle at the screen, only for it to shatter and leave a nasty mess of alcohol and broken glass for me to clean up. The TV continues to work. District Three has made those things indestructible.

"Monsters," Zigmund mutters, "Absolute monsters. Those poor kids. How humiliating is that? If anyone tried to dress up Aurora like that, I'd kill them."

"This is why District Twelve never gets any sponsors," Lyle proclaims, "Their stylists suck."

"I don't know," Cordelia muses, "As many scumbags as there are in the Capitol, a bunch of pedophile losers are probably drooling in front of their television screens as we speak, their fingers hovering over the sponsor button. Dick move either way."

I nod my agreement. We're young. Rash. All too eager to voice our opinions, not particularly afraid of what might happen if we do. We do have a healthy dose of paranoia, though, and thoughts of rebellion are the furthest thing from our minds. As many of our rights as have been stripped away from us, one that remains is the right to do one thing that is undeniably human: complain.

"Bartender!" someone yells, "I'm still waiting for that beer!"

"Right. Sorry, sir."

* * *

><p>The rush has ended, and the last few customers have made their exits. Zigmund and Cordelia have both left, Cordelia for some last-minute hunting, and Zigmund to spend time with his sister. That leaves me and Lyle. I squat down at the floor, sweeping up broken glass from the bottle hitting the TV screen.<p>

"This sucks," Lyle says suddenly, his voice loud enough to startle me into dropping bits of glass back onto the floor.

"What, as you have verbalized so eloquently, sucks?" I implore.

"Everything. This job. The Games. Life, quite frankly."

"I feel you, man. But we keep pushing forward. That's what my dad always says, keep pushing forward. It's been a family motto of ours, really. The District Nine spirit, in a nutshell."

"When was the last time you talked to your dad, Nigel?"

"Two, three weeks ago? Why do you ask, Lyle? Got some kinda problem with your old man?"

"Naw, just wondering. You always talk about him so warmly. Makes me wonder why you don't visit him more."

I take a deep breath, "Because visiting him means seeing my mother."

"Oh, yeah…" he trails off and fidgets uncomfortably, "Sorry to bring it up."

"It's not," I hesitate, "It's not that big a deal. She's just hard to get along with. I love her, of course, she's my _mother_, but… I wonder if she'd say the same about me. I shouldn't even be talking; the Damien thing makes my relationship with my mother seem downright chummy."

He smiles wryly. "Don't even get started on that. It's time for me to pity you for a change."

"You think I…" He waits, eyebrows raised knowingly and a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. I slump my shoulders in defeat. "Okay, so I do pity you sometimes. But," I swing my arm to the television, gesturing to pictures of the tributes that now appear on the screen, "Now we've got people we can pity together."

He laughs, though it wasn't very funny. "I guess you're right. Hey, isn't this about the time they interview last year's winner?"

I swear, Lyle's a fortune teller. The TV makes a whirring sound and flashes back to life. A news reporter is standing outside the Training Center, a building that anyone who watches the Hunger Games would recognize. She has a blue pixie haircut and a grapevine tattoo wrapping around her arm. Her silver-tinted eyes glitter like coins.

"Hello, this is Iris, with Capitol News. I'm here at Games central, where I have the honor of talking to our victor from last year, District Four's Maris Elliope! Maris, what has your first year mentoring tributes been like?"

Maris visibly ducks away from the attention, curling a bit of auburn hair behind her ear. Her sea green eyes keep flickering to the camera, and by extension, the viewers, as she speaks. "It's been different. You know, when you're in the Hunger Games, mentoring new tributes is the last thing on your mind. When you're listing what you're looking forward to when you win in your mind, 'helping my tributes the way my mentor helped me' isn't usually there. But right now, it's all I can think of."

"At the time of the Victory Tour, it was revealed that you got engaged to your longtime boyfriend, Gabriel. Is it everything you hoped?"

"Oh yes. It's absolutely marvelous. Gabe and I, we're different in a lot of ways. He's milder, less driven. He's quite the gentleman, a unique thing in District Four. We're ready to start our new life together, and we couldn't be happier."

"Do you feel that your tributes have what it takes to win?"

"I think Beck has a real good chance. He's skilled. Competent. And he knows his limitations, which is more important than you might think."

"And the girl, Adara?"

Maris frowns. "I don't think she'll last long. She hasn't come to terms with the fact that this is real, that it's actually happening. She's in a daze, which will not serve her well. It's too bad, because if she had stayed in District Four, I believe that she could have been something."

Iris nods, though she's probably too vapid to understand what Maris is saying. "Alright, this has been Iris, covering the fifty-seventh Hunger Games. Thank you for your time, Maris. We expect big things from you."

"Lousy Career," Lyle mutters, "As hard as I try not to like her, I can't help but like her. She just seems so normal… like, she could be anyone here in District Nine. She could be one of my friends. I want to think of her as a heartless killing machine, but I can't. Nothing is ever so black and white."

I shrug. "That's reality for you."


	7. Our Children Grow Up Prisoners

**Chapter 7- Our Children Grow Up Prisoners**

We're going crazy. And Zigmund's driving.

Let's elaborate on that, shall we?

It was his _brilliant _idea for the three of us (me, Lyle, and Cordelia) to come to his house to watch the tribute interviews with him and Aurora. Great. I was game for it. Then, he reveals that Aurora is at a friend's house, and he's going to turn the interviews into some kind of drinking game. He had bought a bottle of rum from the bar a week before –stupid of me to let him get away with it, I know– and thought it would be fun to take a shot every time a tribute made a fool of him or herself or made the interviewer or the audience feel awkward in any way. He's had this planned for months. If he had known that Valdemar Owens was going to be a tribute, he never would've done it.

Cordelia quit after seven. Lyle saw trouble coming from a mile away, and he's stone-cold sober. Zigmund and I have taken twenty four shots each. This is only the third tribute.

Tracy from District One induced the first one when she kept up eerie silence for the first half of the interview and mumbling cryptically for the second half.

The rest were all Valdemar. The kid is a raging lunatic. He swings from giddy and hyper to roaring with anger to crying and whining that he wants to go home to his mommy. Zero to crazy in five seconds, as the old saying goes. I have seen some crazy tributes in my day; even supposed Careers like Valdemar, but none have been as utterly insane as him. And the Games haven't even started yet. Usually the crazy doesn't start till then, when the kids are hammered by emotions and unable to keep themselves from breaking down. The arena brings out the worst in them.

"That's it, Zig," I slur, "I quit."

He laughs. "Thank Jude! You stopped me from saying it first. I'm done. _Never _makin' this mistake again."

"I'm surprised either of you made it this long," Cordelia chuckles.

"You are brave men," Lyle agrees.

I shake my head. "Not brave. Just stupid."

He grins. "I was going to say stupid, but I didn't want to hurt your feelings."

Gotta love Lyle.

The girl from District Two, who I now know is named Ida, walks up to the hot seat. Even her professional Capitol stylists couldn't do anything to make her look less, for lack of a better term, ugly. _I'm hardly one to talk_, I think, as I absent-mindedly twirl a piece of stringy, damaged black hair around my finger.

Looks can be deceiving, however, as it turns out that Ida is charming and –believe it or not– funny. She volunteered, so there's no doubt that she's a Career, but she doesn't seem wholeheartedly into it, because when she talks of the glory of winning the Games, her eyes are hollow. Most likely it's a bring honor to the family thing, with no hope for her back in District Two with the way she looks. Either way, dead or alive, this is her escape.

"The poor girl…" I mutter.

Cordelia gives me a sideways glance, but says nothing, and quickly turns back to the TV when she knows that I've seen her.

Bartlett from Three is small and quiet. Painfully shy, he talks about his adorable seven year old sister and loving parents, his voice filled with longing to see them again one last time. His partner Joule, on the other hand, is erratic and cheerful, with a hundred-watt smile and the amazing ability to fit whole sentences into a single sound.

Beck from Four is what we call a contender. With smooth charm and impeccable coolness, he turns the entire female audience into a swooning mess. Pretty impressive for a lad of only seventeen. Adara is in tears before the interview even begins. Mentor Maris was right about that one.

District Five has a tendency to produce some eccentric tributes. It makes sense; if you had to spend most of your life working in a smoggy factory, you'd likely be off in the head too. Elden, the boy, tends to trail off without finishing his sentences, and he stares into the open air like a blind man given sight. The interviewer gives up on trying to snap him back to attention, so they sit silently for the rest of the allotted time.

Blond-haired, dark-eyed Jaclyn from Six is up next. She gives off a cool, no-nonsense demeanor.

"Do you have anything to win for at home?" the interviewer asks.

"No."

"No younger siblings… no special boy?"

She gives him a sharp glare. "My siblings are dead. And I've got better things to worry about than stupid boys. I've got a job to do. Not everybody has their food handed to them on a silver platter."

_She'll die on the first day_, I think sadly. The tributes that say bad things about the Capitol are always the first to go. Her fate has been sealed.

It's all so terribly unfair. When was it decided that brutally slaughtering children was an okay thing to do? It was before my lifetime, I know, but it seems so inescapably _wrong_. The Hunger Games have been in place since before I was born. Always just a part of life that you learned to accept, much like the living conditions of District Nine. You've never known anything different, yet it feels as if you've been robbed of something that you deserve. There must have been a time where things had been better, or else why would we be able to feel so miserable?

The District Seven tributes are next. Arbor and mayor's girl. In keeping with the boy-girl pattern of this year's interviews, Arbor ascends the stage first.

"Hey kiddo," Caesar begins (Arbor is fourteen), "How are you feeling right now?"

Arbor looks up wearily. "Tired," he admits.

"Has the splendor of the Capitol been keeping you awake?"

" …something like that."

"Great! How're things back home? Tell me about your parents."

He shrugs. "Not much to tell. They're dead."

"Ah, you live in one of the community homes then. What's that like?"

"Not the greatest."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true. You must have plenty of friends."

"No. I don't have any. I'm pretty sure they all hate me."

"Why on earth would you think that?"

"This," he says simply, gesturing to the hard-to-miss bruise on his cheek.

Lyle makes a moan of empathy. I reach over and pat him on the back encouragingly. He smiles at me briefly for the kind gesture before turning back around. The mayor's daughter, Liza, is now talking to the interviewer. Nothing special about her, probably a bloodbath.

We talk through the Eight boy's entire interview, and the girl, Annette, follows suit. There's never anything interesting about Eight.

Our beloved District Nine is up next, and the four of us cheer in a rare display of patriotism. Zigmund even throws a toast when Keith begins to walk to the stage. The sixteen-year-old keeps himself composed, even with bright lights shining in his face.

"Keith! How does it feel to be here at last?"

"Kind of like I've been transported to an alien planet. I mean that in the nicest way possible, of course. In all honesty, anything is luxurious in comparison to District Nine."

"Tell it like it is, boy!" Cordelia shouts enthusiastically.

"Yeah, preach it brother!" Lyle exclaims.

"I'm flattered!" Caesar beams in response to Keith's answer, "But you miss your home, don't you?"

"Of course. It may not be the greatest… or the cleanest… district, but it's the only place I could ever truly belong."

"You got a training score of eight. That's not too shabby. Do you think you could have a shot at winning?"

"Yeah, I'm sure I could. Anything's possible. I try to stay optimistic. It gets you far in life."

"Wise words from a wise young man. Anything to say to the folks back home?"

"Sure. Mom, keep being awesome. Reggie, try not to catch anything on fire. Dad… take care of 'em, alright? Love you guys; hopefully I'll be coming home soon."

The buzzer rings, and Keith gives the interviewer a polite nod before walking back off the stage. We all cheer again. Zigmund gives a long, drawn-out whoop that I'm sure the neighbors heard, and Lyle breaks into enthusiastic applause.

"Weeeeee've got a wiiinnnnerrrrr!" I yell in an over-the-top mockery of the Games announcer, Claudius Templesmith. The others burst into laughter.

"That… was prime," Cordelia breathes, "You're truly gifted, Nige."

"Yeah, giftedly weird," Zigmund smirks.

I shrug. "You say that like it's a bad thing, Zig."

We're more subdued for Bethany's interview. She doesn't radiate District Nine quite like Keith does, but we still try to root for her.

"Hi, Bethany… or do you prefer Beth?"

She smiles uncomfortably. "Bethany is fine."

"Good to know. How do you feel about being in this year's Games, Bethany?"

"Okay, I guess."

"Who are you most excited about seeing if you get home?"

She smiles, for real this time. "My dad. He's great. We're so close. I miss him terribly."

I wonder if I've seen her father before. The bar is a pretty popular place; it wouldn't be surprising if I had. Asher… never heard that name before. Maybe he's not a drinking man. Well, he probably will be after this.

"Don't think she'll last long," Zigmund cuts in.

I sigh. "Yeah, I doubt it."

"I've seen her around before," Lyle says sadly, "She's a year below me; always saw her hanging out with a massive group of friends. Had a lot going for her, and had it ripped away, just like that."

Districts Ten and Eleven pass by way to quickly. The tributes from those two never win; there's really no point.

District Twelve would've gone the same way, except that Ross had a few choice words for the interviewer when he asked the fateful question, "What did you think of your chariot costume?"

Let's just say… you'll never see those words in this book.

**AN: Lame ending, I know. It seemed pretty funny when I came up with it! …oh well, I tried. **

**Chapter title comes from "Radio Song" by R.E.M. featuring KRS-One. The line was meant in a completely different context, but if there's one thing you need to know about me it's that I really don't care about stuff like that. Hehe. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


End file.
